“What are you going to do?” Rose asked. She had been asking that since before they left.
Gwen hadn’t replied, because she didn’t have an answer—not a complete one at least, but saying she was clueless wouldn’t help. While sometimes evasive, she refused to lie. The girls had been lied to enough. If she failed, they would have no choice but to return to Grue and he would punish them each for disloyalty, especially her. Waiting for the door to open, Gwen’s hands were shaking.
She had one hope, one desperate gamble—that the city assessor was just as greedy as any other man. “You’ll see.”
“Next!” called the footman, wearing a long coat and carrying a staff.
Once more, Gwen grabbed Rose’s hand and pulled her inside.
The same old man in a different doublet sat behind the same table. Looking up, he squinted. “You’re familiar.”
“My name is Gwen DeLancy. I opened a brothel in the Lower Quarter.”
“Oh yes.” The assessor leaned back and called out, “Lot four-sixty-eight.”
“How are things going?”
“Good and bad. You see—”
A clerk delivered the parchments and the assessor studied them for only a moment. “The inspector for the Lower Quarter has not yet delivered a report on your business.”
“I know that. I also know that when he does, the report will say that you shouldn’t grant us a certificate.”
The man offered a sad look. “I’m sorry. I must rely on the firsthand reports of the quarter guilds and ward administrators. If you’ve been declined, then there is nothing I can do for you.”
“Perhaps there is something I can do for you.”
This brought a curious look from the old man and he squinted at her. “I think you’ll find one of the reasons I have this position is that I am not so easily persuaded by a pretty face or the promise of nighttime adventures.”
“That’s not what I’m offering.”
“No?”
“In just two weeks I have turned an eyesore into the most attractive building on Wayward Street. In another two, it will be the nicest place in all of the Lower Quarter. Already I am drawing business from both the Artisan and Merchant Quarters—customers with heavy purses. Each of these men are looking for what they can’t find anywhere else in the city—a clean, respectable place where, for a few hours, they can feel like kings.
“I’ve done all this with nothing more than a few coins and six girls. Together we’ve created what could be the most successful business in the Lower Quarter. This is our chance to escape men like Raynor Grue, and we can only do it if you help us. You see, Inspector Reginald Lampwick is going to reject me not because I won’t be profitable, but because he has made a deal with Raynor Grue, who doesn’t want to see the women he once controlled succeed. As soon as you reject my bid, Raynor will put in one of his own. Lampwick will approve it, and Grue will inherit all the work I’ve done.”
“And why would Lampwick do such a thing?”
“Grue has agreed to make him a partner, providing him with a quarter of the profits.” Gwen had seen some of this in Lampwick’s palm. She had seen many things: that he had eaten a slice of lamb and squash for his midday meal; that he kept the key to his strongbox around his neck on a chain given to him by his mother, who had hung herself in his bedchambers; and that he would one day die by being run down by a wagon in the Merchant Quarter. She had no genuine clue as to how much Grue planned to give the inspector as his share, only that they had made—or would make—such an agreement. She merely guessed at the stated figure.
The assessor frowned. “There are guild inspectors who accept gifts from business owners. It’s not against the law. Perhaps if you had made such an arrangement with Mr. Lampwick, you could have secured your business interest.”
“That’s exactly what I am doing. Only I am offering to give you the deal that Lampwick wants with Grue. Lampwick told me that the decision isn’t up to him, that it’s up to you, and I will pay a quarter of all the profits of the brothel in return for securing the certificate.” She lifted up the purse and placed it on the desk. “We have only just started. We haven’t even officially opened yet, and most of the profits so far have all gone into the building with just a little spent on food, but this is what you can expect right away, and I promise you, there will be more … much more.”
The assessor looked into the purse and raised an eyebrow.
“You needn’t take my word for it. Reginald Lampwick has already seen the value in the property. What he doesn’t understand is that Grue will never make a success of the place the way I can. If he could, he would have by now. I’m the one who made this happen, and I’m the one who will make it grow. Why should Lampwick benefit from your decisions? Give me the certificate and I’ll be able to provide a good income for you and your family for years to come.”
He glared at her.
That was it. Her cards were out, and she had nothing left. She didn’t like his look. On their last visit, he had appeared so friendly, so kind. He was one of the few people in the city who didn’t treat her like a disease. She had felt such affection for him that she didn’t begrudge his sharing in their success, but now she knew she had underestimated the man. Looking at him, Gwen realized her mistake. His clothes were not like those of Dixon or Grue. He had money, perhaps more than he could spend. What would be the point in offering a few more coins each month?
Gwen felt the weight of defeat pressing down. She had failed, and now all of them would be—
“How often would I receive such a gift and be certain”—he raised a careful finger between them—“this would be a gift that you would bestow upon me and not a partnership?”
“Of course … ah, monthly would be best, but weekly if necessary.”
“Monthly,” he confirmed.
She nodded.
The old man took a quill and began to write. “See that such gifts are delivered each new moon.”
Gwen couldn’t help smiling. “I’ll do my best to make certain you won’t have the strength to lift it.”
He smiled back. “I’m afraid Mr. Lampwick will be very disappointed by my decision.” He looked to one of the clerks. “Bring the royal seal.”
The evening was milder than most as Gwen stepped out onto the planking of what would soon be Medford House’s front porch. Behind her in the parlor, the girls talked and laughed. Rose was repeating the story again for the benefit of Dixon and Mae, who missed the first three renditions. With each retelling, the number of times Rose used words like brilliant and marvelous increased.
Gwen moved to the edge of the would-be porch, a framed platform three feet above the dirt, and leaned against a rough beam that would one day support the porch’s roof. Across the street, The Hideous Head was quiet. Lamps were lit, but the door was closed and she saw no one moving about. She wondered if Grue had learned the news yet. Hard to imagine anyone in the Lower Quarter not having heard. The way Rose told the tale, Gwen had vanquished a fire-breathing dragon merely by spitting in its eye. She had done the impossible. She’d saved them all. Gwen was a hero.
She leaned against the beam feeling strangely melancholy.
I’ve won the battle, but have I lost the war?
A pair of dogs zigzagged the length of Wayward Street, sniffing for food. Besides them and a corner of canvas that flapped in the wind, nothing else moved. She had spent the gold coins. She had traded them for this. She had saved herself, and yes possibly a few others, but perhaps none of that was meant to happen. Her weakness had likely ruined everything. Those coins were entrusted to her for a reason. Since the death of her mother, she had awakened each day with a purpose greater than herself. Standing on the porch, Gwen understood she had cast away the only physical proof that the man with the gold coins had ever existed. She had sold her faith for security, and it felt as if she had lost the best part of herself.
Was it too soon? Or too late?
It hardly mattered; the coins were gone. She
could replace them. She hadn’t lied to the assessor about the kind of money the House was making, but she didn’t think it worked that way. That was the problem. She had no idea how it worked. All she ever knew were bits and pieces, like her skirt sewn from random bits of cloth. Both formed a pattern of no discernible sense. This is how people feel when they have their fortunes told, she realized. Her mother had left everything behind and died trying to get Gwen to Medford, but she had never said why. Maybe she didn’t know. Only the man with the coins had really known. For the first time in her life, she had succeeded at something great, and yet never before had she felt like such a failure.
She stared down the length of the street. The man she was supposed to help would come this way. Dressed in his own blood. She knew it—felt it in her bones like an approaching storm. Who might he be to attract the attention of the man who had given her the coins? Someone great certainly, a king perhaps, or a priest. Maybe even—
“What are you doing out here?” Dixon asked. Rose had finished her bardic tale and the big man hovered in the doorway, blocking the light. “Isn’t it cold?”
“Not too bad.”
“That Rose tells a great story.”
“It gets longer each time.”
Dixon stepped out beside her, reaching up to steady himself with the rafters. “Wind is picking up. Storm is coming.”
She nodded. “Good thing we got the roof finished.”
“It will be nice to just watch the rain for a change.” He placed a big hand gently on her shoulder. “You did a good thing here.”
She smiled and nodded, again wondering at the sympathetic tone of his voice. Do I look that sad?
“I never did thank you for taking me in.”
“I didn’t take you in. I desperately needed your help. I still do.” She placed her hand on his.
He moved closer and his arm reached across her back. She felt his body drift up alongside like a boat moving to meet a dock. His warmth circled her. It was a good, safe feeling. Dixon never availed himself of the obvious benefits of being the protector of a brothel. This was the first time he’d ever touched her. His arms and fingers rested lightly. She could sense the hesitancy, the self-conscious fear, and she loved him for it.
She put her arm around his waist as best she could and squeezed. “You’re a good man.”
“You’re a good woman. You know this business looks like it might be a real success. You most likely won’t need to do any of the day-to-day activities the way the other girls do. You’d be better off handling other affairs and such.”
“I’m already too busy.”
“See, that’s what I’m saying. And that being the case, well … someone might consider making a proper woman of you.”
“Someone like you?”
“Unless Roy the Sewer has made his intentions known. And if he has, there’ll be a fight.” He grinned and then let it fade before saying, “What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. This took the wind out of him, and it made her feel terrible. She felt him diminish, his arm drooping along her shoulders, his sight shifting to the street. “I think the world of you. I’m just not sure—”
“How’d you do it?” he said.
She didn’t understand.
“How did you discover what the inspector was planning?” His arm was off her shoulders and he had moved a breath farther away, his eyes continuing to look down the street.
“Oh, that.”
“Yeah, how did you know—about Grue and Lampwick?”
“I … ah…” She hesitated. “It’s kind of a secret.”
Dixon looked at her, surprised. “Really? You can’t tell me?”
She could see the hurt look on his face deepen. “It’s just that … I’m afraid you’ll … Most people would be disturbed. I don’t want you to dislike me.”
The hurt turned to concern. “It’s not possible for me to dislike you.” He offered her a little smile. “So how’d you do it?”
“I read his palm.”
Dixon looked at her. “You did what?”
“It’s very common back in Calis. Lots of people do readings and none of them are witches. They have shops like cobblers and are respected members of the community.”
Dixon held up his hands. “I wasn’t going to call you a witch.”
“No?”
“No.”
“What were you going to say?”
“I was going to ask how you learned to do it.”
“Oh.” Gwen felt embarrassed. “My mother taught me the practice years ago. Like I said, a lot of people in Calis tell fortunes. Some are better than others and there are a few my mother used to call swindlers. But my mother was very good at it.”
“How does it work?”
“I see patterns in the lines, like scholars do when they read books. I get impressions, images of the future or the past. Some are vague. Most don’t make any sense at all—until later. Everything always makes sense afterward. But some can be very clear, very precise, like his. I got lucky. I really don’t exactly know how it works myself. How do your eyes work? You don’t know—you just see, right? It’s like that. Just something I can do. I also have dreams sometimes that show the future, and sometimes I can see things just by looking in a person’s eyes but that’s rare.”
Frightening, too, but she didn’t say that, not wanting him asking too many questions that she didn’t want to answer.
“So you really can see the future? It isn’t a trick?”
“No trick.”
Dixon held out his hands to her.
She looked at them and smiled gently. “What I see isn’t always nice. Most often I see bad things, which is why I don’t do it often.”
“I’d like to know. But you have to agree to tell me the truth.”
She knew what he wanted to know. She smiled and nodded. Then, taking his hands, she led him over to the lantern and looked at his palms. The dominant hand was usually the best to read, and while she was deciding which that was, she noticed something strange.
She looked up, puzzled.
“What do you see?” he asked.
“That’s never happened before.”
“What?”
“The story on your right hand is shorter than the story on your left. This is so odd.”
“Are you messing with me?”
“Huh? No, of course not.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I don’t know yet. I have to read.”
His hand was so large, the lines so clear it was an easy read even in the dim light.
A small boy in a little farmhouse between two pretty maple trees. His father is a strong man who works a plow like it’s part of his body. She can’t see his mother and guesses she died giving birth. So much of the skill was in the guessing, working from the clues available to complete the picture.
The farm burns; there is cracked earth where crops should have been; there are floods and storms. Gwen had no idea of the order; scenes were often out of sequence. There is Dixon as a young man, standing in the rain outside of a pleasant house. It isn’t his; it belongs to a girl with red hair. He’s in love, but her father is giving her to another, a richer, older man. Dixon stands in the downpour watching the wedding from the far side of the stone wall. No one can tell he’s crying. Heavy rain always reminds him of that day. Gwen is sitting next to Dixon, next to the cart in the downpour on Wayward Street—the day she hires him. He’s thinking of the redheaded girl.
Dixon’s horse goes lame, and he has to kill her. He cries that day too. He pulls the cart himself then. He trudges along country roads. Then the cart gets away from him on a hill, smashes against a rock, and the axle breaks. He doesn’t have the money to repair it. In another rainstorm, he stands on the edge of the Gateway Bridge above the Galewyr, staring into the current. He comes very close to jumping. She couldn’t tell if it was because of the cart, the redheaded girl, or something else. She couldn’t even be sure if it was in h
is past or future.
A great battle, a war. Dixon is dressed in makeshift armor fighting in the Gentry Quarter near the front gates of the city. He charges a man and—
This was where the stories in the hands diverged.
“Your right hand stops in a battle here in Medford. Your left says you’ll die in a different fight, at a fortress years later.”
“But either way I die fighting?”
“Looks that way, but not for many years.”
“That’s good … I guess. Anything in there about you?” he asked hopefully.
She nodded. “We’ll remain good friends our whole lives.”
“Friends?”
“Friends.”
He sighed.
“Not what you were hoping for?”
“It’s still a good fortune. A damn good one, actually. Better than…”
She was still looking at his palm and stopped hearing him as she saw something new.
Dixon and his cart, a horse pulling it this time, but a different horse. They aren’t in the city—someplace else, maybe a farm. Sheep are bleating and it’s raining, a storm, a terrible storm. Men lying on the ground, facedown in large puddles. “More will be coming. Leave us or they’ll know you helped.”
The voice. It reached out of Dixon’s future. It spoke to her.
“Over here!” An old man waving. “Help them—please. You have to get them out of here. Just dump the wood and hide them in the cart. Take them away.”
Lightning flashes. No longer raining, but dark. The cart is on Wayward Street. One of the men climbs out. Small, weak, he staggers and beats on the door of the livery, calling for help. He is covered in blood.
Dressed in his own blood.
“What’s going on? Gwen, what are you seeing?”
She was shaking. “Have you bought a new horse?”
“No, I … ah…”
“What?”
“I was thinking about it. The money you paid me went to fixing the axle on my wagon, and I was saving up for … There’s this horse this guy up in the Art-Q is selling cheap. A bit on the old side, but—”
The Crown Tower: Book 1 of The Riyria Chronicles Page 25
